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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26976730">city in a garden</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarcanza/pseuds/tarcanza'>tarcanza</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Men's Hockey RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Current Events, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:35:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,815</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26976730</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarcanza/pseuds/tarcanza</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s here again, gold curls a little long, a little unruly, peeking out from under the brim of his baseball cap. Despite the shadows, Jonny can see the purple underneath Patrick’s eyes, the tense set of his jaw. The weariness in his face. </p><p>or</p><p>(Patrick and Jonny talk after Crow doesn't get re-signed.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>152</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>city in a garden</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I am forever bitter I didn't have a Fall Out Boy phase, but my dear friend Dauhu introduced me to "City In A Garden" a few months ago while we were talking about 1988 and I *totally* got emo over the lyrics (I suggest anyone looking to tear up over 1988 and the Hawks and Chicago go look them up). Anyway, it's been a rough few days for us Hawks fans, and this was the only way I could process recent events. I hope it brings comfort! Thanks to Dauhu and Winged_Beauty_16 for supporting me throughout the writing process! Love y'all! &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They don’t live next to each other anymore. </p><p>It’s harder, these days, to casually show up at each other’s doorsteps, to make it seem like it was a happenstance rather than a deliberate choice.</p><p>Patrick still does, sometimes. After bad games or long days, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders rolled back in an exaggerated show of nonchalance. Voice casual, eyes slipping past Jonny’s face and shouldering his way inside like there’s nothing extraordinary about him going out of his way to show up at Jonny’s doorstep. Jonny never calls him on it, just lets him in. Mostly because he never wants Patrick to stop. </p><p>He’s here again, gold curls a little long, a little unruly, peeking out from under the brim of his baseball cap. Despite the shadows, Jonny can see the purple underneath Patrick’s eyes, the tense set of his jaw. The weariness in his face. </p><p>It makes Jonny ache, slow and deep, makes his fingers tighten on the door. Patrick doesn’t let himself in this time—just stands hesitantly, hands fluttering at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them, eyes darting up to Jonny’s face before quickly looking down, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. </p><p>Jonny swallows. “Hey,” he says, voice coming out hoarse. Patrick meets his gaze, familiar blue eyes serious in a way they shouldn’t ever be. He smiles—a pale, weak thing. </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>Jonny steps back, opening the door wide. There’s a moment of hesitation before Patrick steps inside. It’s subtle—a stalling inhale, a wavering. Most people wouldn’t have noticed. Jonny notices, and it makes something uncomfortable twist inside him. </p><p>Jonny always notices. </p><p>Patrick steps inside, shoulders brushing the front of Jonny’s shirt, a whiff of something woodsy mixed with the fresh smell of detergent making Jonny go dizzy, muscles automatically relaxing at the familiar scent. </p><p>Patrick usually goes straight for the fridge or throws himself down on the couch without a second thought, but this time, he takes a few steps and hovers, looking around like he hasn’t been in this apartment hundreds of times before. He looks like—a visitor. </p><p>Jonny hates it.  </p><p>Jonny clears his throat. “Hey,” he says, and it comes out soft, gentle in a way he didn’t mean for it to be. “Sit down. I’ll get us some beers, yeah?” Jonny doesn’t know what part of him is speaking—friend or Captain. But it does the trick—Patrick loses some of the stiffness in his limbs and nods, a small smile flitting across his face before he ducks his head down and walks to the couch. </p><p>There’s no reason for Jonny’s throat to be going tight at the sight of the bottles of Bud Light sitting in his fridge, no reason for him to be gripping the fridge door and letting the cold air escape as he keeps staring at them, shoved next to his own craft beers. They’re always there, just as essential to his grocery list as his eggs or his kale or his sweet potatoes, even though he fucking <em> hates </em>them, doesn’t even drink them. Patrick does, though, swipes one every time he comes around, teasing Jonny relentlessly for his own Sierra Nevada’s while Jonny threatens to ban him from coming over until he grows a sense of real taste. </p><p>He keeps buying the Bud Lights, though.</p><p>Jonny grabs the beers and lets the door snap shut, turning around. Patrick’s sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the black TV screen, eyes unfocused, back straight. Jonny walks over and sinks down next to him, fishing the remote out from between the couch cushions. He glances at Patrick’s clenched jaw, his hand flexing minutely in his lap—feels the heavy silence between them. He turns on the TV. It’s an old episode of <em>South Park</em>, volume up so high that it almost hurts Jonny’s ears. He doesn’t bother to turn it down though, because it helps drown out the anxiety screaming through him. </p><p>They sit unmoving, silent. The episode ends, and Jonny blinks. Patrick hasn’t touched his beer—it’s clutched limply in his hand, still full. Jonny’s is empty.</p><p>It’s Patrick that turns off the TV. </p><p>He doesn’t say anything for a while, just clutches the remote like it’s an anchor, throat working as he swallows. Jonny waits, even though the urge to speak builds. “Did you talk to him?” Patrick says finally, voice rough. He still isn’t looking at Jonny. Jonny’s looking at Patrick though—he can’t <em> stop </em> looking, trailing his face over Patrick’s worn profile and soft shirt and worn sweatpants and white knuckles. </p><p>“Yeah,” Jonny says. “Few hours ago.” He took the call on the couch, glued to his seat for a good hour afterwards, staring off into the distance—he imagines he looked something like Patrick does now. </p><p>Patrick relaxes his hand, tosses the remote back and forth between his hands a few times. “Me too,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. His face contorts. “He was fucking devastated, Tazer.” His voice is raw, cracking at the edges, and Jonny has to take a breath at the pain that shoots through him—Jonny can’t tell if it’s just his own or if Patrick’s has crept in with it, making it hurt that much more. </p><p>“Yeah,” Jonny repeats, feeling dumb, useless, tongue heavy in his mouth. He searches desperately for something to blunt the blow, soothe the wound, but there are no words of comfort here. Not real ones. <em> He had a good run here, the fans will always love him, this will always be his home</em>—all the words are true, but they feel empty. Meaningless. </p><p>Patrick finally looks at him. Even in his ratty shirt, even with his tired face—Patrick still makes Jonny’s breath catch in his throat. It’s not a new feeling, but it takes him off guard, every time—the way his heart stutters when Patrick blinks at him, blue eyes staring into his. “Did you know?” he asks, and Jonny’s mind goes blank. </p><p>“What are you asking me?” His voice comes out flat. Patrick flinches. </p><p>“I just—”</p><p>“You think I would just sit back and let this happen if I did?” He can’t help the hurt coloring his voice. “You think I wouldn’t <em> tell you? </em>” </p><p>Suddenly Patrick’s hands are on his, voice tripping over itself as he crowds himself into Jonny’s space. “No, I—Fuck I know, Jonny, I’m sorry.” He squeezes tight around Jonny’s wrist, forcing Jonny to look at him. “I’m sorry. It’s just—I <em> trusted </em> Stan, you know?” His eyes are wide, lips turned down at the corners. “I know you wouldn’t—<em>fuck. </em>” He releases Jonny’s hands to toss off his cap and run his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I just feel fucking crazy.” He gives a short laugh. “I don’t know what to think right now.”</p><p>Jonny closes his eyes. “Me neither,” he says. It feels like a confession, something ugly and shameful. Because he <em> should’ve </em>known—he’s the fucking Captain. It’s his job to be on top of things, to take care of his guys. He doesn’t know how he could’ve possibly known about this, but looking at Patrick’s weary face, hearing Crow’s tinny voice through his phone—it feels like his fault. It feels like failure. “I’m sorry,” he says, because that’s what he feels, what he needs to say. </p><p>Patrick looks at him sharply. “Don’t fucking do that.” </p><p>“Do what?”</p><p>“<em>That</em>,” he repeats. “Beat yourself up, blame yourself. This isn't on you." He's looking at Jonny steadily for the first time since stepping into the apartment, voice fierce, confident. </p><p>"It feels like it," Jonny admits quietly. He stares down at his hands. "I just keep thinking, if I’d done more, been better—Jesus, a fucking rebuild.” Jonny shakes his head. “It doesn’t feel real.” That wasn’t the plan, had never <em> been </em>the plan. Except it was—clearly it became so somewhere down the road. Jonny wonders how it happened—when did Stan start thinking about it? Did he call a formal meeting in his big office, or did he offer the idea up casually over drinks, teasing out a response? How long had he been sitting on this, while the team went out on the ice night after night and fought their hearts out?</p><p>“Hey,” Patrick says, and Jonny looks up—has always looked up when Patrick uses that voice. Jonny might be the Captain, but he listens to Patrick when he asks. “We’ve been fucking <em> good. </em> It’s not on us.” Patrick’s always been hard on himself, quicker to recognize his failings than his achievements, but there’s not even the slightest hint of doubt in his voice—and he’s right. They <em> have </em>been good. Somehow, that makes things even worse. </p><p>“It’s just so unfair,” Jonny says, swallowing down the bitterness in his throat. Maybe he’d understand if they had nothing left in the tank, nothing left to give. But Jonny still feels so fucking <em> alive</em>, burning up with the desire to fight every night—three Cups in, and that hasn’t changed. He knows Patrick feels the same way, sees it in how hard he still skates every shift, the way he intently reviews game tape, how he still screams himself hoarse at Jonny on the bench. </p><p>Sure, they’d barely scraped their way into the playoffs this year as a 12th-seed team. But they gave it their all, did better than they could’ve hoped—and Jonny knows they still have it in them. He’s still willing to give everything of himself to get Chicago another Cup—but he can give until there’s nothing left, and it still wouldn’t be enough. You can’t win a Cup without a team—and Stan seems determined to take that away from them.  </p><p>“So, what now?” Patrick asks, and the air gets knocked clean out of Jonny’s lungs. The words hang in the air. It’s what he’s been thinking since he got the news, since the realization set in. Not so much about himself, but about Patrick—he’s grown up with Patrick in a lot of ways, knows him better than he knows anyone. But he doesn’t know what Patrick is thinking about this—is <em> terrified </em>of knowing. </p><p>“I don’t know,” Jonny says honestly, and Patrick tenses beside him. He’d—maybe naively—thought that he and Patrick <em> and Crow, </em>his mind adds, would be playing together in Chicago until the end, maybe hoist another Cup or two. That’s always been his reality. But now it’s shattered. It’s still what he wants. Even with Crow gone, it’s what he wants. But he doesn’t know if it’s what Patrick wants anymore.  </p><p>“So, are you thinking about asking for a trade?” Patrick’s voice is measured, steady. Calm. </p><p>Shock blooms bright and sudden in Jonny’s stomach. “What?” he asks roughly. </p><p>“I mean, you could—get a fresh start. You deserve another shot at the Cup, Jon,” Patrick says, and the words are kind, earnest. But they make Jonny feel sick.  </p><p>“I don’t—”</p><p>“It could be good for you—great, even. It—it would make sense, if you wanted to,” Patrick continues, and the resolute tone makes Jonny want to tear his hair out. The thought of leaving Chicago, playing without Patrick—Jonny can’t help the shudder that goes through him. But here Patrick is, telling him he should go. That it would be <em> good for him, </em>like he doesn’t give a shit if Jonny stays or not. </p><p>“Do you want me to go?” Jonny says harshly, and Patrick’s brow creases. He hadn’t meant for it to come out like that, had meant for it to match Patrick’s own even voice. But he couldn’t. </p><p>Patrick swallows, eyes tracing over Jonny’s face. “I just want what’s best for you,” he says quietly. He sighs, deflating. “Pat asked me about it, though—if I’d considered waving the no-movement clause, go somewhere else with a better short-term future.” He shrugs. “I thought maybe he’d asked you the same thing.”  </p><p>Jonny swallows. He had—it was the call Jonny took right after talking to Crow. “I don’t want to leave,” he says. He can’t imagine it, even if they only have half a team left by the end of this mess. An unsettling thought hits him. “Do you?” he asks Patrick. “Do you want to leave?”</p><p>Surprise bursts across Patrick’s face. “What? No, of course not,” he says vehemently. </p><p>“Then why’d you ask me if I wanted to?” Jonny snaps, irrationally upset.</p><p>Patrick crosses his arms defensively. “Look, it would make sense—”</p><p>“It would make sense for you too,” Jonny points out heatedly. “Why are you pushing—”</p><p>“Because I’m <em> scared, </em>okay?” Patrick bursts out, breaths coming out fast. “I’m scared,” he repeats. </p><p>“Patrick—”</p><p>“You could leave, and it would make sense. It might even be good for you. No, it <em> would </em>be good for you. But I can’t make myself want that, even though I should—I’m too selfish.” There’s a tremor in Patrick’s voice now, fracturing down the middle, making it uneven at the edges. “I could go somewhere new, and it would be good for me. But I don’t want that. It’s not even just about Chicago, I—” Patrick stops, letting out a harsh exhale. “It’s about you, too. Maybe more,” he admits, and Jonny’s  heart thuds in his chest. “I don’t want to play without you,” he says, and Jonny hurts and hurts and hurts. </p><p>He thinks about Patrick’s beers in his fridge, the pictures of them holding the Cup all over his apartment, Patrick’s old DVDs still sitting in the basket next to his TV even though he doesn’t have a DVD-player anymore. He thinks about the hundreds of nights spent together in their hotel room, forced together—the hundreds of nights they’d sought each other out even after they stopped rooming with each other. He thinks about Patrick’s stupid cellies, crashing into his arms after his goals—the way they find each other on the ice. He’ll never find that with anyone else, doesn’t <em> want </em>it with anyone else. </p><p>The world narrows down to Jonny and Patrick and the space between them. Jonny takes a deep breath. He looks at Patrick’s miserable face, his chest heaving, fingers shaking, and Jonny does what he does best—he calls the play. </p><p>“If you did leave,” he says. “I’d go with you.” He’s never felt so nervous in his life—not on his draft day, not during the 2010 Olympic gold-medal game, not during Game 6 versus the Flyers. </p><p>Patrick blinks at him, mouth parting in shock. “Chicago’s your home,” he says.</p><p>“Yeah,” Jonny says hoarsely. “It is.”</p><p>“Then—”</p><p>“It’s not home without you, though.” This time, it’s Jonny that meets Patrick’s gaze head on, watches him process Jonny’s words, watches the wonder fill Patrick’s expression. </p><p>“<em>Jonny,” </em>he breathes out, voice full of awe, and Jonny feels a flush spread across his face, but he doesn’t let himself look away. Patrick’s fingers are trembling when his hand comes to cup Jonny’s cheek. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” he says, voice soft. He’s close now, so close, fingers warm against Jonny’s skin. </p><p>Jonny lets out a shaky laugh. “When have you ever read me wrong, Peeks?” </p><p>Patrick smiles, slow and sweet, eyes filled with so much fondness that Jonny can’t breathe. </p><p>His thumb strokes across Jonny’s cheekbone, and then Patrick’s lips are on his. Jonny gasps into Patrick’s mouth, sparks shooting up his spine. It feels like an ending in some ways, a culmination to something that’s been building for years—Jonny doesn’t know when he noticed it, but it’s been there. Always, maybe. With Patrick’s tongue moving against his, his bitten-off little moans filtering out as Jonny trails kisses down his neck, it feels like a beginning, too—something warm and bright and happy. </p><p>Jonny doesn’t know how long they sit there, entwined with one another, tasting each other, moving their hands over each other’s bodies. By the time they separate, Jonny’s lips are numb, chest so full he feels like he could burst. Patrick looks at him, eyes bright, skin flushed pink, lips swollen, and so, so beautiful. </p><p>“You’re staying in Chicago,” Patrick says abruptly. Jonny raises his brow.</p><p>“Oh? What happened to ‘you should leave, it would be good for you?’” Jonny teases, a curl of pleasure wrapping around him as Patrick tightens his hold on Jonny’s wrist protectively. </p><p>“I don’t care,” he says fiercely. “You’re staying with me.”</p><p>Jonny laughs, ducking down to grab Patrick’s baseball cap from where he’d thrown it down earlier. He plops the cap down on Patrick’s head, wriggling it until it sits properly. “I’m staying with you,” he agrees. He tilts Patrick’s head back, pressing a quick kiss onto his lips. “And you’re staying with me.”</p><p>Patrick smiles. “Yeah,” he says, quietly satisfied. “And we’re staying here, in Chicago.”</p><p>Jonny smiles back. “In Chicago,” he says. It’s a promise. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/tarcanza">Twitter</a>. Come say hi!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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